Writing Prompt: Day 17


Day 17 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Your character is punished in a weird/funny way.

Shannon: “The only way we are ever going to go to breakfast tomorrow is if we have some kind of repercussion when we don’t want to get up,” Charlotte determined as I was climbing into my loft for the night.

“Yeah, but what repercussion can overcome morning brain?” The promise of a blanket’s warmth was my weakness whenever our alarms would go off and Charlotte would question if we were going or not. Then we’d get into a charade of “if you want to” and “I don’t care” and eventually fall back asleep.

“Ooo I’ve got an idea. How about whoever gets up first gets to slap the person who is still sleeping in the face,” she suggested and then giggled maniacally.

Even though it was dark I felt the need to lift my upper body to rest on my elbows and look over to her. It sounded like the worst possible way to wake up, but definitely effective. “Are you serious?”

“It will work, won’t it?”

“I mean yeah,” I agreed with a laugh, “But I’m terrified. How am I supposed to sleep?”

“You only lose if you fall back asleep. It’s not like I’m going to quietly wake up and slap you in the face. It’s only fair. Are you in?”

“Mmm,” I hummed. “Ok I’m in.”

Next Morning:

“Still want to get breakfast or do you want to go back to sleep,” Charlotte questioned.

“Are you going to slap me in the face if I go back to sleep?”

She paused, “No, I never honestly thought I could bring myself to do it anyway.”

“Ahhh, I think I’d rather sleep,” I decided, feeling less pressure to stay awake.

“Ok,” she yawned and that’s the last thing I remember before dozing off again.

Whack. I woke up to a sharp pain in my cheek, and saw Charlotte standing over my bed. “Ha ha, you lose.”

“Hey,” I rubbed my faced. “You said you wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know me at all,” she shook her head. “But hey, on the bright side we finally get a good breakfast,” she shrugged.

Erin: My mother has always been a fan of cruel and unusual punishment. In her defense, I have always been prone to cruel and unusual behavior. The punishment always fit the crime, to a terrifying degree. The first time I stole I had to anti-steal, and no, not give to charity like one would assume. I had to sneak my belongings into stores and leave them on the shelves, where they would most likely be forgotten or thrown out. It made the punishment that much worse.

The time my mother deemed a skirt inappropriate that I then wore the next day to school was a start of a long two months and the first ever double whammy. First, I had to go to church in it to be judged by God and Pastor Nicole. The following months I had to let my mother dress me. My mom had bad taste when she was happy. Angry mom would do great in outfitting haunted house workers. She even bought me some new clothing, so I would have a turtleneck appropriate for the 111-degree weather. I still cringe when I see my polka dot top, knowing I had once worn it with plaid pants.

When I spent the night with my boyfriend she kicked me out and said I would have to act like an adult if I thought I was one. Crashing in his house ended my relationship with that boy. I don’t know if mom knew back then we couldn’t make it if we got too close. I may have just pushed her past her limit. I used to think my mom was a little nuts, and now looking back as an adult I know she’s nuts. But then again, here I am putting a parental lock on every TV channel other than the learning one, so I have no place to judge. But I mean, I turned out okay, right?

How you get people to behave does not always involve behaving yourself… think on that, and think on this, and write on this!

3 thoughts on “Writing Prompt: Day 17

  1. Kate:
    “Myra L. Lighton, you stand trial for the accidental,” the judge’s tone changed here as he sniggered, “death of Mr. Jesse Haneswood.” Another dramatic pause and I could feel my blood pressure rising. I strained against the cold chains forcing me to stay seated, the handcuffs cutting into my bare wrists painfully. Showing off a set of rotten, yellow teeth the judge smiled at me, “This court finds you guilty and sentences you to three years without anger.”
    My stomache twisted in knots at the sentence; jail was one thing but that was just plain cruel. When I tried to speak, though, the judge banged his gavel and the hologram was gone. Swearing under my breath as I was led away by two guards I glanced over at Jesse’s family. They stared, without tears for their dead kin or joy for my punishment, like they couldn’t care less. Boots heavy as lead and hands bound I staggered down the hall back to my cell between two armoured wardens.
    Once I was back in my cell, the shackles hung on the wall opposite my door, I laid back on my bumpy mattress to spend my last few hours of freedom thinking. Somewhere down the hall someone shouted in a husky voice, “Hey! M? You on the line?” None of these criminals meant well but their idle interest was mildly calming. A few other voices replied to him in the affirmative before I sat up and padded slowly to the door on aching feet.
    “Actually,” I called back to them, “I’m not dead yet. But they’re messing with my brain for three years.” A silence greeted me where you could hear a pin drop on the concrete floor. After a few minutes the detainees began to shift around in their cells again; going back to their reading or polishing knives or television. I sighed as I went to sit on the edge of my mattress, considering my meager accommodations.
    For a convict I hadn’t been here long, though my condemnable crime had been less severe than most here, so I hadn’t accumulated the amount of illegal possessions as most in this hall. I had a crummy bed with stained blue sheets, a small desk and chair set with profanity carved into the soft surfaces and a toilet I could barely bring myself to use. Sitting under the bed was a small pile of books I’d taken out from the library, read through and had expected to read again.
    Considering how most of my fellow prisoners treated the items they owned I didn’t want the next resident of my room to get their grubby hands on these classics. As I stooped to gather them a low, slow knock came on the door and I abandoned the books in their shadowy hideaway. I stood and called, “Yes?” in my least respectful tone. When the door slid deafeningly into its pocket I nearly covered my ears. Huffing I spat, “Wha’dija do that fer?”
    Before me stood a squat man in a white lab coat with a scrunched, cruel expression on his pudgy face. He stepped into the room, a guard peering around the doorway suspiciously at him, and looked me over. Clucking his tongue his lip lifted on one side as he sneered, “Miss Lighton, time for your appointment.” When he noticed the little stack of books under the bed I knocked them back into the darkness under my bed with my heel protectively. “Come,” he barked, strutting down the hall like he’d won the lottery.
    When I just stood, gawking after him, in the middle of my room the guard in the hall motioned for me to step outside. I took a few steps before irons were securely fastened around my wrists and ankles again, making every step jangle. Marching before the guard the occupants of the cells we went by stood at their doors out of respect; it was odd the amount of honor criminals placed on some things where normal citizens didn’t.
    Quickly we reached the end of the hall and stepped into the elevator with the tiny man grinning giddily. He pressed a few buttons and the lift brought us crashing downward into a subbasement. As soon as the room stopped moving the man clapped his hands excitedly and the doors opened on a dank hallway with flickering lights straight out of a horror movie.
    Hopping out and practically skipping down the hall to an open door the man stopped. When he looked back there was a terrifying darkness behind his eyes. When he’d cleared his throat he spoke in a honey voice that sent shivers up my spine, “Bring her in here. Time for her checkup.” Involuntarily I made my way, stepping through what I hoped was water but felt too dense to be just water, to the dimly lit entry. Inside the room stood a swiveling chair with blood-stained straps, behind which the man was busily working.
    Somewhere in the back of my mind there was terrified screaming but I prayed my exterior didn’t betray my inner emotions. When the guard shoved me through the door I nearly fell on my knees, catching the edge of the chair as I flew. Turning around to swear at the guard I felt a pinch and spreading numbness in my arm. Hazily I looked up at the doctor holding a comically large needle as I dropped off to sleep.

    I woke up in a disgusting back alley covered in mud, wearing my jail clothes and with a wicked headache. Sitting up I vomited onto the soaking pavement when a bout of dizziness caught me like the world’s worst hangover. Shakily I got to my feet, hanging onto the solid brick wall beside me for support, and began to stagger towards the towering neon sign for the bar, Betty’s Bar.
    As I lurched across the street, an indigo motorcycle came careening down the street, narrowly missing me as the rider laughed. Turning to shout back at him I realized I had no fire coursing through my veins; that stupid, emotion-tampering doctor must’ve done something to me. Without my usual anger I was unable to muster the will to swear back at the motorcycle rider or the doctor.
    This sudden realization that my anger was gone gave me unexpected clarity and my headache faded into the background, drumming steadily on the back of my skull. I straightened up and sauntered across the street to the bar, where the bouncer took one look at me and meekly unlocked the latch. Stepping aside to give me a wide berth he almost bowed before noticing some of the regulars pointing at his fear with condemnation.
    I paced up to the bar with conviction and winked at Betty who nodded to the stairs. As I turned from the bar my genial smile turned into a wicked smirk at the hell I would rain down on this bar if I ever found out who ratted me out about Jesse. But there was no anger or heat behind that expression tonight, and I knew there wouldn’t be revenge until I could enjoy the fire coursing through my body again.
    This punishment was worse, by far, than death.


  2. Russell:
    “How bad can ten cups of cold brew coffee be?” Alec attentively took a sip, tasting the cold refreshing punch of caffeine before gulping the first one down with an electrical shudder. Copper haired and eyed, Alec looked to his two friends, Joseph and Blondie. with their arms crossed in a theatrically. A devilish smile was shared between the two of them. Joseph wore his typically clean white apron he used during cooking lessons, his hair pepper black. Blondie was the biggest of the three of them, his hair fittingly enough was an amber gold. Around them, the plain looking school kitchen was strewn with various coffee presses and tins as a giant glass jar with a spout was filled with cold coffee. Alec poured another cup full of cold concentration and gulped it down. “Some punishment this is.” He muttered.
    Joseph and Blondie snickered. “Oh, don’t worry about it.” Joseph said. “We made Billy kiss a dead fish for stealing my lunch. Your lucky.” He sat down on the kitchen counter as he reminisced about the incident. “Oh god that was funny! He was so grossed out by it!”
    Blondie snortled, nearly causing Alec to cough on his drink. “Yeeaah.” Blondie chortled as he lazily looked down at his watch.
    Alec drank his third cup before slamming it down, his hand spasming. “Gosh…um, okay, I can take a couple more.” He poured his fourth cup from the faucet as he drank it down. “I think.” I rubbed his stomach as a loud bubblingly growl rumbled out. “Ugh…What did you guys put in this stuff?”
    Joseph listed off on an idle hand, flicking each finger up like a sling. “Water. Ground coffee. Lemon. Ice cubes. A shot of vodka.”
    Alec put his fifth cup down. “Vodka? Where did you…?”
    Joseph interrupted him. “Uh huh, remember? No questions. Besides, the lemons will neutralize it so you won’t get drunk.”
    “I don’t think that’s how it-”
    “Stop being a smart ass and drink up.” Joseph replied sharply.
    Alec flinched as he gulped the fifth drink down. “I don’t feel good.” He nearly barfed as he resisted he swallowed it back down. “Jesus what did you put in this thing?”
    Blondie nudged his friend in the shoulder. “He doesn’t look so good man.”
    “Shut up.” Joseph snipped. “I’m not going to let him get away with embarrassing me.”
    Alec’s face turned green as a vomit projectile shot out, landing on Joseph’s apron. Joseph recoiled back as Alec collapsed on floor. “Uggghh…” Alec moaned.
    “Ah crud…”


  3. (…And now I draw a blank. …Again…)

    Created to Write:
    Heather was used to pranks from Tony. She tended to sneak decaffeinated coffee into his mug at odd hours of the night, so he’d get to bed. He’d then rig Jarvis to blare ‘All American Girl’ whenever she entered a new room. But the last straw was painting his Iron Legion bots bright colors.
    Heather walks into the training area, where she notices one thing is different.
    Tony walks in, “He isn’t training you today. I am.”
    Heather looks at him, confused. He presses a button and Iron Legion bots, the very same ones she painted, come out of the lab.
    “…I have to fight those?” Heather asks.
    “Yes,” Tony presses another button.
    Heather gets into stance, “Odd prank, Stark.”
    “Not a prank. A punishment. Steve agrees you need to stop it with the pranks.”
    “You started it.”
    “By taking my attempt to keep you from falling asleep mid welding session after several all nighters in a row as an offense,” Heather says.

    (I wrote this one before, but this is a basic summary. …I couldn’t think of anything else.)


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